


Inseverable Parts

by hypocretin



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocretin/pseuds/hypocretin
Summary: “Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -— Emily Dickinson





	Inseverable Parts

**Author's Note:**

> _“Hope” is the thing with feathers -_   
>  _That perches in the soul -_   
>  _And sings the tune without the words -_   
>  _And never stops - at all -_   
> 
> 
> — Emily Dickinson

 

                                                                                       Too many years had passed beneath the shadow of a Raven.

     

                                                                                       From his place out on the balcony, Siegfried can see for miles  


                                                                             over the kingdom. The winter earth has had little warmth to offer the  


                                                                             sky, leaving it without a single cloud to hang on the horizon; a brilliant  


                                                                             gradient of azure Siegfried finds his eyes eager to drink up. His palms  


                                                                             press against the cool whitestone as he leans gently into the wind,  


                                                                             breathing deep of it. 

     

                                                                                       On days like these, Tutu truly believes that she can be his  


                                                                             hope. Tucked away within the scaffolds of his heart, she will drive  


                                                                             every melancholic and baneful thought from his mind. 

     

                                                                                       A voice calls up from the garden, ringing brightly through the  


                                                                             crisp, clear air, and Siegfried’s eye follows the sound to Rue, who  


                                                                             walks among the perennials with her lady’s companion, eager to call  


                                                                             out with an earnest word that the candytuft has had its second bloom.  


                                                                             He raises up a hand to wave back, calling out with a cheerful smile in  


                                                                             his voice. Tutu happily shares room with the swells of joy that rise up

                                                                             with his voice.

     

                                                                                       His eye lingers on them a moment longer, and Tutu can feel  


                                                                             again that curious rush of emotion touch his heart. It is a feeling he  


                                                                             has not known before to rise within him so, a feeling she hasn’t a  


                                                                             word to put to. Contentment, perhaps, but ‘contentedness’ does not  


                                                                             serve to capture the powerful gravity she senses in him when his eye  


                                                                             falls on Lady Rue like so.

     

                                                                                       There is a certain bittersweetness to it; an acknowledgement  


                                                                             for what once was and what was lost—but the grief does not rule  


                                                                             him any longer. He wears it as a scar, she thinks: No longer a wound  


                                                                             open and festering, but not a thing to be quickly forgotten, either. No  


                                                                             longer does he labor under the pain, but like any old injury it is  


                                                                             sometimes prone to aching when stormclouds gather overhead.

     

                                                                                       In this way, that grief has become part of him, now. As   


                                                                             inseverable a part of his heart as she. Yet, settled alongside these  


                                                                             scars lies happiness, and beside it fulfillment, too. Each a treasured  


                                                                             feeling he has scarcely let roost long in his heart before. For so much  


                                                                             of his life Siegfried’s selflessness had been quick to chase away such  


                                                                             notions, yet in Rue’s company he had discovered a feeling with might

                                                                             enough to best even his altruism.

     

                                                                                       Then, alongside his grief and his love, there is she: his Hope.

     

                                                                                       Hope for a kingdom eager to thrive out from under the shadow  


                                                                             of a raven. Hope for a story that no longer suffered beneath the ink of  


                                                                             Drosselmeyer’s whims. Hope for the promise of a life first lived with  


                                                                             his own wishes and longings in mind.

     

                                                                                       He presses a hand to his breast, closing his eyes against the  


                                                                             cool wind as it plays at his hair. He breathes deep of it, and in his  


                                                                             exhale there is a hum in his voice—a gentle, quiet tune. A memory of  


                                                                             a long-ago time. She wonders, when he hums it in these quiet, stolen    


                                                                             moments left to himself, if perhaps he knows somehow that she still   


resides within him. 

     

                                                                                       She hopes that he does.  



End file.
